I am a god, feathers trailing 

through jewel-toned ocean on my way 

to the meeting of other gods. Some drive Volvos

rusted and busted; some hitch rides, three to a seat. 

I dream

                   the children hiding

in my grandmother’s house are actually there

for me—under blankets, behind rocking horses,

beneath the bathroom tiles—it’s my birthday! (maybe) 

but baby,

                   I’m a tinpicker now: flashblind

I’m skimming on elbows. Tear down disaster

to a stainless steel sky. Richman, poorman, beggarman

thief, somewhere in my bones I lick your armpit.

Somewhere 

                   in a peatblock hovel is my family, faces black

with coal. But the arc of your waist as you turn with the camera—

gunslinger! No more office party Christmas kisses now

‘cause I am a saltmarsh: natural buffer to the tides.

Reedbed

      woodland, grazeland

heath: living on joy we’ll be destitute soon, said 

with a wave toward primary colors. But what if 

Restraint is also a god, and instead of withholding

she invites 

       us both through the door 

to massage away this sleepless bloat 

with hands growing strong as shoes gather 

dust, and night after night beside you

I dream

J.Q.F. is a poet and editor in New York.